


every time I try, every time I win

by thissupposedcrime



Series: you and you and nothing but you [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 01:29:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9100474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thissupposedcrime/pseuds/thissupposedcrime
Summary: At least no one’s brought up couples costumes. Yuri isn’t sure how Otabek would react to a live recording of him leaping over a table to fight a reporter, a symbolic stand in for the death of Yuri’s sanity and Victor’s cutesy legacy. He guesses not well, and that is enough to hold his tongue. 
Or, Otabek is naturally romantic, Yuri is naturally clueless, and somehow they work it out.
 French





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Every time I try, every time I win](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9325400) by [Ruize_chan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruize_chan/pseuds/Ruize_chan)



> Me @ Grand Prix 2016: Otabek Altin deserves better, deserves the world and I will give it to him. (He wants Yuri so hell yes, he will have him.)
> 
> A Boy Named Sue played on my ipod the morning I started this, that’s the title, there’s no deeper meaning, please someone save me.
> 
> Update 1/14: I am floored by the response this fic has received. I'll be making two companion pieces to this shortly, so be on the lookout.
> 
> Unbetaed and written because 'soldier boy' is being a brat

Years ago this thing with Otabek blindsided him, the status quo in his life when Kazakhstan's Hero is involved. Annoyingly, every time history repeats itself, he’s left swearing about not seeing it coming. Every damn time. Blind men and emotionally challenged, concussed skating fools could have. But not Yuri. _Because he’s special like that_.

He and Otabek differ on what tone they deliver the statement with. Yuri’s man is weak.

Regardless, it’s a statement, not an opinion. Yuri _is_ special when it comes to Otabek, will likely be until death do them part, but Yuri’s not ready to admit that yet.

* * *

Otabek is easily convinced to drive across the continent to visit Yuri in the early summer after his first Grand Prix gold. Originally, Yuri wanted to spend a longer time in Moscow or fly to Japan before his easy access to a hot spring moves in next door, but he’d like to skate with Otabek, show him his rink, so with Lilia and Yakov he remains. Under a dark St. Petersburg sky, Otabek arrives, dusty but overjoyed to have traveled Kazakhstan, starry eyed.

Unfortunately, his appearance means Otabek will see the obnoxious trophy case installed in his bedroom, a tangible reminder of his successes. Future battles are represented in the rows untouched by medals, certificates, or awards. It dwarfs Yuri by nearly half a foot. When it arrived, he asked Yakov if they were remaining with Lilia until it filled, an impossibility. Worryingly, Yakov looked panicked by that prospect, a man realizing doom was imminent. If Victor didn’t have his hands full with Yuuri and himself, Yuri would have considered changing coaches.

Upon spotting it, eye level with the top of the case, Otabek grins brightly. Yuri expects a joke about the size, not an achingly sincere, “You’ll need another in a few years.”

Yuri thinks, “Damn, he’s smooth.” His heart seems to skip a beat.

Yuri thinks, “Damn, he’s good.” His heart now goes twice as fast.

Outwardly he offers a nod and hustles them out of the room, hoping Otabek doesn’t notice how frantically he pushes at firm shoulder blades.

Otabek laughs under his breath, happy, eyes fond as they catch Yuri’s.

Yuri thinks, “Oh shit, I’m screwed.” His heart stops entirely.

Tragically he spends the rest of the week as a stuttering, blushing mess. Otabek cheerfully, obligingly ignores his struggles, a clear sign Yuri’s feelings aren’t returned.

He needs to shut this emotions bullshit down.

* * *

Yuri fails to shut this emotions bullshit down.

Resigned that these stupid fucking feelings weren’t abating over months of physical separation, Yuri and his hormones call for mercy by his seventeenth birthday, looking down at his phone screen, a video of Otabek paused mid-jump, skating a program choreographed to Yuri’s favorite song.

_Surprise!_

Fuck.

He’s gotten taller, his shoulders are still broad, and Yuri would sacrifice his Grand Prix gold to tangle his fingers in Otabek’s soft hair for just a second.

Yuri has any number of options at his disposal in finally confronting this realization.

The healthiest route includes having a frank conversation with Otabek, but Yuri would rather melt the ice and drown himself before risking their friendship. There isn’t a world for Yuri without Otabek in it, and revealing his feelings will repel him faster than Lilia in a mood can everyone in the vicinity.

Finding a functioning adult and asking for advice is a tempting idea, but he only knows two, Grandpa and Yuuko. Yuuko might accidentally narc, or Victor will simply intuit the opportunity to tease Yuri and weasel the details out of her. Grandpa, worried this day was coming, will be so relieved reliable, trustworthy Otabek is his object of affection that _he’d call Otabek for him_.

In desperation, he could lower his standards and contact Katsuki but again, Victor. Also, he doesn’t want to establish a dynamic where they share relationship secrets. He’s not young enough to face bankruptcy over the therapy he’d require.

Yuri sleeps better at night now that they’ve gone back to Japan and he doesn’t play Russian Roulette with his eyesight by walking into the rink.

Three months prior, right before they permanently returned, Mila said, “Oh Yura, have you committed to Georgi levels of overreactions?”

Yuri, refusing to enter the rink until he sincerely prayed neither was undressed or in a compromising position, ignored her, chanting louder and crouched outside the door. She doesn’t visit Japan like he does. She doesn’t share walls with them. He knows things.

Helpless, Yuri finally resorts to his default method: scrawling internet boards and social media accounts until he finds a depressing number of testimonials about ruining friendships for romance.

Repress, repress, repress. Don’t return the phone calls until hours pass. Be quieter on Skype. Focus on the ice. He’s not running away from a problem, just ensuring his survival, their survival. Tigers don’t retreat, they survive. Soldiers survive. _Stay focused on the ice._

He’ll forgive you. He’ll always forgive you, especially when you’re doing it for him.

Otabek allows him two weeks of that behavior until he corners him at Worlds. In hindsight, the two weeks are a miracle bought because of the upcoming competition. If the roles were reversed he’d have been on the next flight over after three days, an impatient agent of vengeance and terror.

Worlds should be awful. Gangly limbed, Yuri tanks into fourth place. His only consolations are JJ Leroy failed to reach the top of the podium, because his Otabek stands in the center, tall and unshakable. Otabek’s American friend Leo earns bronze. Someone needs to explain why there’s a Chinese skater crying over that but Yuri isn’t sure he wants to know. JJ’s placement and his own selfish desire to win prevent his tears of joy. Nevertheless, he can’t help the smile tugging across his face seeing Otabek, normally so grim even when victorious, glancing in his direction and winking.

Eventually, the photos and on ice celebrations conclude. Yuri can sneak back to the hotel and hide out until the exhibition and flight home. A block away from the hotel, Otabek’s arm is cement solid around his waist, tugging him down a different street.

“Beka!”

“I’m relieved you remember my name.”

“Beka?” He doesn’t sound angry or defeated, but grim and disappointed. Yuri feels smaller than his recent growth allows and docilely follows Otabek to a park, arm clamped around him like a vise the entire time. Briefly Otabek pauses to unwrap his scarf and place it around Yuri’s neck after he shivers. The guilt compounds.

Yuri quietly thanks the social media lords that no one witnessed the Ice Tiger declawed. Secretly, Yuri knows he’d gladly take a hoard of Angels on, embarrassment documented across all platforms, if it kept that conflicted look off Otabek’s face.

Settling slightly off the lit path of the park, near a cluster of trees, Yuri prepares for battle.

“I was unaware of your aptitude for fleeing.” Oh shit, Beka gets formal when he’s pissed. This this is worse than Yuri thought.

Unfortunately for them both, love isn’t enough to keep Yuri out of trouble, so he has no problem unhinging his jaw to shout, “I’m doing this for you so don’t bitch me out! You’re not normally this annoying!”

Frowning, Otabek replies, “You’re avoiding me for me?”

“Obviously, you dick!

“Obviously?” he parrots.

Yuri waves his arms around, a pantomime of ‘ _yes obviously, idiot, can we please go back to ignoring my pining because we’re good at that_ ’

For once, Otabek does not understand.

“Obviously.” He repeats flatly. Otabek inhales then says, “Yuri, you need to tell me what’s wrong. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he bites out through clenched teeth.

Otabek just stares, which, fair.

“Yura?” He sounds concerned now, and Yuri’s pulse skyrockets in frustration.

“Fine! If this sucks, it’s your fault and we’re never talking about it again!” Yuri demands before lunging at Otabek, a Molotov cocktail of petty annoyance, anxiety, and hormonal frustration.

Yuri’s prophecy comes true. Their first kiss is awful. He misses most of Otabek’s lips and gets his chin, badly judging the distance between them. Embarrassingly, it is also sloppy, as Otabek was trying to speak.

Luckily Otabek pulls away to course correct Yuri, so brief a separation that Yuri doesn’t even consider panicking over a rejection.

Their second kiss is a dramatic improvement. Dryly, Otabek will call him a natural when he brings this up hours later.

In the present, Otabek, hands on Yuri’s hips, walks them further away from the path and to the darkness of the trees, lips never leaving his.

Mila’s peals of laughter the following morning as she has to help him cover a hickey can be heard back in Russia, but the contentment coursing through his veins and the memory of warmth is permanently locked inside him.

* * *

They’ve been dating for two months when Otabek creates a Twitter account. Yuri’s heart goes into overdrive when the header is from a trashy website that published pictures of them in Barcelona, riding together. Otabek calls them happy memories, the sap.

In response, Yuri plasters Instagram of shots of Beka, who stoically accepts the situation but never fails to hide his face against Yuri’s neck whenever he climbs on his lap, waving his phone around. Internally, Yuri commends Otabek for being such a trooper.

During their first two years of dating, Otabek is more likely to spend late spring and early summer in Russia, a warm chest for Yuri and his cat to curl against. He quickly grows accustomed to motorcycle rides and Otabek’s hand entwined with his own or in his hair, pulling out the damn cat ears.

His fans have better aim than JJ Girls, which is both a thrill and a terror. Otabek’s fans are quieter, but still devoted at a distance. Yuri is thankful he doesn’t need to go to jail.

Through the skating season, Otabek sends flowers occasionally, simply for convenience. Normally he creates care packages of foods, a kitten plush, gloves in winter, or, once, toys for Yeva, who takes after her owner and adores Otabek without bribery.

There is nothing appealing enough to be found in lists of boyfriend gifts mined from social media accounts, so Yuri sticks to the basics, a constant stream of updates on his life in texts, tweets, and images. Once, Yuri found a bear shaped first aid kit in a local storefront with Mila. The teasing he was subjected to was worth it when Otabek posted it to Instagram.

_#lyublyu_

* * *

The years are kind.

* * *

Whenever the media calls Victor Nikiforov his mentor and inspiration, it takes all of Yuri’s self control (already at a microscopic level) to not yank the microphone out of a reporter’s hands and scream _bullshit_.

Victor Nikiforov has managed to do two things right for Yuri: choreograph a record breaking short program four years ago and seduce Yuuri Katsuki back into skating. Admittedly, the second is more impressive than the former, but Victor couldn’t even manage that alone. Half of Japan and Yuri had to finish the damn job for him. Mila argues Victor is why Yuri developed a twitch in his eye. She’s probably not wrong. The stress is even worse on Yakov, but children are supposed to break your heart, so Yuri holds little sympathy.

This reporter, hell if he can recognize her, they blend into a chaotic mix of gossipy bottom feeders dressed in indiscriminate suits after awhile, offers questions about his on ice performance. Fortunately,Yuri’s been performing this song and dance for most of his life. He knows what they’re trying to lead toward.

That pain in the ass and his better half managed to maintain a relationship on the ice easily enough. Didn’t Yuri learn from them considering his established, documented affections for Otabek Altin?

No, no he fucking did not. Mimicking the loser couple does _nothing_. They used to thrive on being adorable, joking that whoever placed lower would walk their poodles in the morning or kissing each other’s medals. That year of dual competing was a dark time. Yuri genuinely feared for his life, harshly gagging in the background until Victor retired to his preferred profession of international embarrassment.  

Victor still holds the record for highest combined score at the Grand Prix but goddamn if Yuuri Katsuki wasn’t the settler in that relationship. Yuri said as much at their wedding. Memorably, as half the wedding party gaped at him for making that the entirety of his speech, Victor stood up, clapping, and agreed.

Otabek doesn’t try that obnoxious chore reward garbage, and Yuri loves him with the intensity of a supernova for it. Instead, Otabek just quietly hums to himself as he washes the dishes, like he always does. He seemed confused by Yuri’s puzzled looks the first few times he rose from the dinner table to clean up without prompting. After the third instance, he pressed a kiss to Yuri’s cheek and argued, “You like cooking but hate dishes, so I don’t mind.”

Privately, Yuri thinks Otabek’s years on the road made him a sucker for domestic tasks, but it keeps the kitchen clean so he’s wary of pointing that theory out. He’s mouthy, not a moron.

At least no one’s brought up couple’s costumes in front of Yuri. He isn’t sure how Otabek would react to a live recording of Yuri leaping over a table to fight a reporter, a symbolic stand in for the death of Yuri’s sanity and Victor’s cutesy legacy. He guesses not well, and that is enough to hold his tongue. This must be love.

Their design aesthetics won’t mesh at all. No one in their lives would let them move on from the horrific nightmare of clashing patterns. Although Otabek is the first voice to call out support for Yuri’s dreams, he’s also hyper attuned to elegance and fond of symmetry. In contrast, Yuri might have been caught on video fighting an eighteen year old girl in Tokyo over tiger print jeans. They make his legs look fantastic. The last time he wore them, Otabek unzipped them with his _teeth_. Yuri is a lucky man.

Reluctantly, Otabek would consent to pair skating because he excels at suffering in silence for Yuri’s sake, assuming Yuri even wanted to upstage those two assholes. Well, more than he always does. Luckily, Yuri would punch someone in the throat before they could bring up the idea in front of them, or Otabek’s bright-eyed coach, so their lives remain blissful.

Or at least they would have if someone could pry Yuri’s social media enabling phone from his hands.

* * *

Normally, Yuri is fond of Otabek’s fans. They’re respectful, quiet in public outside of the rink, and are smart to realize Otabek is a true star.

Even now, he can’t blame them from the dawning horror settling in his stomach like a crushing weight as he searches through forums after his press conference.

The first post is fairly innocent, a different perspective of one of their earlier dates. Yuri is perched on a tiger on a carousel, and Otabek stands away from the ride, taking countless photos from various angles for Yuri to sift through and select for posting.  The image prioritizes Otabek as the focus, not Yuri, likely on the other side of the ride. His posture is steel straight, gaze antipathetic and bored.

Next, there are examples of the stuffed animals Yuri favors and a video of Otabek throwing a white tiger half his size onto the ice after a free skate in China, beaming with pride.

Less dramatic moments are noted, some proven by his own Instagram, problematic trends he now sees, a flush across Otabek’s cheeks and neck as Yuri wears his scarf, how often Yuri’s given the last bit of whatever food they share, the sheer volume of thoughtful trinkets Yuri proudly wears that were gifts from his boyfriend.

Others are uglier, a possessive Yuri scowling at Leo as he approaches Otabek, and Otabek’s pinched reaction. There’s proof of an argument in a cafe, seemingly a disagreement over who should pay the bill. Instead they were fighting over which country to spend their off-season in, Otabek refusing to leave Almaty despite, as both clearly knew, the inferior resources. Otabek took an earlier flight home and would not answer Yuri’s calls, limited by his own anger, for three weeks.

Someone with too much time on their hands created a video compilation of Otabek reacting to Yuri’s successes on ice, overjoyed and supportive. The music playing in the background is soothing. He tries watching the following video of his reactions to Otabek, but exits after ten seconds, tired of his own anger and frustration.

Yuri’s Angels are gamely lashing out in his defense, but there’s no denying the truth.

Otabek deserves better.

* * *

Otabek’s career is steadily concluding, age and worn muscles catching him through slower movements and the occasional weak jump. Quietly he’s started talking to a sport psychologist, moved baggage and boxes into Yuri’s apartment. They fought in numerous screaming matches this month over selling the apartment in Almaty. Yuri doesn’t appreciate the weight of that sacrifice on his shoulders, fears Otabek will feel entrapped by Russia, unable to easily return home to visit family or his old rink.

It goes without saying that they’ve never raised a hand to each other, even accounting for Otabek’s fatal tenacity or Yuri’s default reaction to rage using physical threats. They bruise each other’s feelings easily enough. Despite his best efforts and once, a drunken staring contest with a portrait of a pre-teen Otabek, Yuri can’t recall how they met. Otabek assumes too much or too little of him in equal turns, and expresses genuine shock whenever Yuri remembers the inconsequential details of his past and their present.

Their established patterns do little to prepare Yuri for the jarring feeling of being pressed against the wall, Otabek’s hand a cushion protecting Yuri’s head from injury. His other hand cradles Yuri’s cheek while Otabek nuzzles their noses together.

_“You are my home.”_

What is Yuri supposed to say against that? He bites at Otabek’s lips and tugs him into the bedroom, gives him a proper send-off before his trip to Canada. Like the soldier Otabek pretends he is, Yuri waits for Otabek to leave the country before calling Yuuri and having his first panic attack.

Tears pour out of his eyes as he coughs over the phone; he is a leaky ice machine without a heart, and Otabek deserves a world Yuri can’t provide him. Yuri can’t even convince Otabek that he’s memorable! He needs to stop him from selling that apartment, return him to a country that adores him, a family that surrounds him. Yuri needs to let him go. The thoughts circle in a loop, repeat constantly.

“One, two, three. Exhale,” Yuuri intones over the phone, soothing despite being woken up in the middle of the night. The pattern continues for fifteen minutes until Yuri stops shaking, voice raw and shredded, but breathing level.

“Yura?” Victor’s voice startles him, and he frantically rubs at his eyes, which is stupid because it’s a phone call. He hates everything.

“Did something happen to-”

“No one died,” Yuri responds flatly, in Russian. He wonders if Yuuri can hear them, but Victor spoke Russian first, and it’s easier to communicate with. Translating hurts.

“Are you injured?” There’s muffled noise in the background. Yuri thinks he hears the word airport and sighs.

“I need to leave Otabek.”

Announcing it to the room silences everything, even the hum of electronics or the buzz of the city outside. Victor himself stops breathing. For a moment, Yuri believes the line disconnected and wonders if he should call back.

“What.” Victor’s voice is terrifying and yet again Yuri hears rustling on the other side. He can almost envision Yuuri moving around the bedroom, hushing Makkachin and looking for their suitcases, which they always leave in the damn spare bedroom so they spill onto Yuri when he visits.

“He deserves to be happy.”

Another brief pause, and Yuri swears Victor softly accuse ‘ _he gets this from you_ ’ before his voice regains volume.

“He is happy Yura.” Victor is firm, but he doesn’t know Otabek like Yuri does.

Victor is blind to the light red pillow marks that soften Otabek’s face when he naps in the early afternoon, deaf to his sighs if Yuri nips at that spot on his neck, ignorant of the care he takes in watering the flowerbed, lessons learned from his mother during the skating off season.

Yuri offers an ugly sounding scoff in return.

“In your first press conference after the Grand Prix win, they asked you about your fellow competitors.”

Like in all conversations with Victor, the familiar sense of verbal whiplash settles over Yuri.“I’m sorry for whatever I said about your superior half. How many times were you dropped on your head to think this is the time?”

Nobly, Victor ignores him, and Yuri remembers they’re no longer bickering child and petulant adult.

“Yakov wanted to kill you. All you could talk about was Otabek’s skating. He had to yank you from the reporters when you started ranting about who was on the podium. Even I never inspired such rage at a press conference.”

“I don’t remember that.” The press conference at least. Hell coping with a cold frost, stars pouring out of the sky, _Victor divorcing Yuuri_ will happen before Yuri can forget the robbery of Otabek’s bronze medal. Lifetimes can pass, and Yuri will still feel emboldened by rage. Canada paid off the judges is his popular theory.

Fuck Canada.

“You were fifteen and had just won gold. Besides, even then we could see the way you looked at Otabek. I begged him to let it go as long as you didn’t repeat yourself again.”

“Did I?”

“Did you?”

“Repeat myself? For Beka?” Yuri’s voice is small, and he curls up on the bed.

Victor laughs. “Of course. You still do. Last time you two visited I played him a video Phichit compiled of your best ‘I Love Otabek’ moments. As far as I know it’s still saved to his phone.”

Annoyed, Yuri asks, “You didn’t think to tell me that?”

In unison, Other-Yuuri now joining in, they call, “We thought you knew!”

“Obviously not assholes!”

“You make him as happy as he makes you Yuri,” the better half of that duo points out kindly. Victor chirps in agreement.

“Whatever.” He stretches out on Beka’s side of the bed.

“You do Yura.” Victor sighs and continues, “How would Otabek feel if he heard this?”

“Enlightened?”

“Punk attitude stopped being adorable when you hit twenty.”

Yuri groans in annoyance and moves on, “He’d be furious I was making decisions for him because only he gets to choose his path.” Yuri doesn’t see the point in walking around the mountain when you can just as easily barrel through it but he supports anything that works for Otabek.

“Do you doubt how he feels?”

“I don’t doubt _him_ you waste of breath.”

A few indiscriminate sounds later, Yuuri takes the phone from Victor.

"Have you talked to Otabek about your concerns?"

"Can either of you give decent advice? No, of course not!"

Unlike Victor, Yuuri continues unperturbed. It is both a blessing and a curse. "You're terrified of what he's giving up to be with you and worried you don't measure up. You do though. He made this choice, and he loves you. Part of the reason you don't want to speak with him is because you know his feelings will be hurt, not because you're right, but how he'll feel by your asking."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are. Don't argue just to argue."

"Whatever," Yuri mutters, face half pressed into a pillow.

Victor speaks again, "You need to sulk for a bit before you listen. Call us in the morning so we know you're alive and so we can yell at you."

No, a smile isn't valiantly trying to break free. "You're not my father."

Yuuri offers a final parting line, "Not biologically. But Victor will call Yakov while I book plane tickets so it's best you follow orders for once. Night Yura."

Yuri doesn't doubt it, and that fact alone helps settle his stomach so he can rest. 

* * *

A harsh screech of police sirens shocks Yuri out of sleep around 2 AM, roughly a week later. Otabek’s arm is trapped under Yuri’s side, fingers brushing his stomach. He’s suffering from jet lag due to an early evening flight from from the charity exhibition in Canada, so the clamour outside does not stir him. His breath is even.

While he was gone, languishing with JJ, Isabella, and their shockingly cute spawn, Yuri reviewed dozens of press conferences, scrawled through the entirety of Phichit, Victor, and their own Instagrams, and sulked around the ice and ballet studios, contemplative.

After meticulous study and research, he has concluded Otabek is a damn fool. According to Victor, from his kingdom of glass houses, so is Yuri.

Fuck it.

“Beka, wake up!” Yuri commands, shoving at his bare chest.

Without opening his eyes, Beka mumbles, “Did you have the dream about the-”

“No! Tell me why you love me.”

“This can’t wait till the morning?” Otabek groans, “It was just a nightmare.”

“I didn’t wake up from a nightmare,” Yuri replies, exasperated.

One brown eye opens as fingers rub against his spine. “Are you sure? Last time you yelled like this, you dreamt I married your Russian rink mate.”

“You’ve never even met Dmitry!” Damn it Beka.

“That didn’t stop you from hissing at me for half a week until I bought you flowers. From Kazakhstan. Where I was. Unable to kiss your rink mates.” Yuri’s damn fool sounds fond, if mildly sleepy.

“ _Anyway_ , answer my question.” He pokes harder.

“I love you because you love me enough to frantically wake up at…” Beka rolls over to look at their alarm clock and swears, “2 AM, worried a week in Canada changed my mind. It hasn’t. Go back to sleep.”

“What if I crashed the motorcycle?”

Bleary eyed, Otabek grabs his face and stares. “Sixty years from now, even if you spend every evening between then and now waking me up to ask obvious questions, I will still love you. Tomorrow, when you get back from the rink, I’ll even give you a list. Now let me sleep.”

Otabek can’t help but yawn across the pillow, and Yuri is inexplicably fond, completely relieved.

He kisses Otabek’s hand and, one last time, takes a page from the chaotic love instruction guide created by skating’s other famous duo. Surprise.

“You’re good at this.”

“Loving you? I’m the expert.”

“Asshole. This means you’re in charge of the official proposal. I won’t know when or what to do. Probably throw the ring at you.”

Otabek freezes, then gasps.

“Official proposal?” He wheezes, all traces of exhaustion evaporated.

“I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m ordering you,” Yuri wonders if his heart has escaped his mouth, how he’ll recover if Otabek doesn’t react the right way. Fucking Victor and Yuuri. He needs to find a way to play the grief off if the answer is no, if-

Otabek rolls him onto his back, starts sucking a hickey against his neck. His hands are tugging at Yuri’s shirt.

“Beka?” He gasps.

“Engagement sex. Let’s go,” Otabek replies, distracted and pressing kisses along Yuri’s face.

“Really?” Yuri can’t help the ticklish delight spilling across his skin and expressed through his voice. He clings to Beka’s back, thankful he sleeps without a shirt.

“I’d marry you tomorrow if we could,” Beka huffs into his mouth, beaming when he pulls away to look Yuri in the eye.

Yuri melts.

They don’t speak the rest of the night.

* * *

The following morning, they call Grandpa.

Otabek spits out his coffee when asked about the proposals and rings, desperately cobbling together a lie that they’ll need to work on. Grandpa laughs at them both.

He laughs harder when Yuri chokes on his eggs, stunned when Otabek comes out of the bedroom with rings to actually show.

(They get married the year after Yuri’s retirement. Yakov cries harder than Lilia but not nearly as much as Victor.)

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> I had so many more plans for this damn story. It was just going to be Yuri getting competitive over how romantic Otabek is but I got this instead??? Kind of annoyed but not enough to delete this
> 
> Part of me wants to do a chapter in Otabek's point of view where he feels loved and content and has no clue anyone could think otherwise. 
> 
> I'll go back to working on Solider Boy soon. Bit of writer's block (I also couldn't decide if an idea I liked for it would end up here but whatever). But I did give a shout out to Dmitry?
> 
> [Give me prompts or scream with me on tumblr](http://thissupposedcrime.tumblr.com/) (thanks kinoglowworm for teaching me hyperlinks. you're a true hero.)


End file.
